----Chapter 10----
The battlefield was silent save for the ragged, desperate gasps of the knights.
The miasma Holon unleashed coiled through the trees like a sentient shadow, its venom seeping into every breath, every open wound, every pulsing vein.
The once strong Purge Knights, men and women who had faced unspeakable horrors without flinching, now lay trembling on the poisoned earth, their strength utterly drained, their lives slipping away with each agonizing heartbeat.
Eldhar was on one knee, his gauntleted hand clawing at the poisoned dirt, blood bubbling from his lips.
His vision swam in and out of focus, his lungs screamed for air that refused to come, yet still he forced his ravaged body forward. With the last remnants of his strength, he shouted into the swirling haze.
"Azre! I know you can hear me! Fight it! Wake up!"
His desperate cry shattered the oppressive silence, a beacon of defiance in the face of oblivion. The Valkyrie stood only a few paces away, her figure unnaturally radiant and untouched by the deadly venom.
White gold wings shimmered faintly in the dim light as she gazed down upon them, her expression cold, detached, as if the suffering of mortals was a triviality beneath her notice.
Eldhar's shout sparked a chorus of voices, a symphony of desperation. Rowan, coughing up blood, gritted his teeth and forced the words out through sheer force of will.
"Azre, fight her! Don't let this thing consume you! We need you!"
Thalia, her bow lying useless beside her, dragged herself weakly through the dirt, her voice hoarse but fierce, fueled by unwavering loyalty.
"You are not gone! You are stronger than this! Come back to us, Azre!"
Aven, pale and shaking, lifted his head only enough to whisper her name, his voice barely audible above the rasp of his own failing breath.
"Azre… please… we need you…"
The Valkyrie's gaze flickered almost imperceptibly, though no flicker of emotion touched her face.
At last, she spoke, her voice both divine and cruelly detached, echoing like a chorus of disembodied voices layered into one.
The sound sent a shiver down their spines, a cold wind that promised only despair.
"Fools. She cannot hear you. No matter how you scream, no matter how you weep, she is lost to me.
This body is mine now, a vessel for my will. Her soul is buried in the deepest abyss, and there it shall remain, forgotten and alone."
Her words struck like a physical blow, heavy with finality, extinguishing the last embers of hope.
Yet as she raised Executioner in her hand, the blade glowing with an unholy light, her head suddenly jerked back as if struck by an unseen force.
Pain, raw and unbearable, split through her skull, threatening to shatter her very being.
A guttural sound, like the death rattle of a wounded beast, escaped her throat as she staggered, losing her grip on the weapon.
The Executioner fell, its flaming edge hissing as it struck the poisoned ground, and the Valkyrie collapsed to one knee, clutching desperately at her head.
"Pathetic… humans…" she snarled through clenched teeth, her voice laced with venomous hatred.
But the defiance in her voice was broken, faltering under the invisible assault that tore through her from within.
Deep within the suffocating prison of her own mind, Azre stirred.
She had been drifting in a sea of endless darkness, her body nothing more than a distant, fading memory, her thoughts shackled and suppressed by the Valkyrie's iron will.
Yet the voices faint at first, then sharper, clearer, louder broke through the oppressive void, piercing the darkness like rays of sunlight.
Eldhar's voice, strong and unwavering. Rowan's, filled with desperate hope.
Thalia's, burning with fierce loyalty. Aven's, a whispered plea that tugged at her heart. They reached her where steel and magic could not, a lifeline in the abyss.
She saw them in her mind's eye, saw them writhing in agony, their lives being choked away by the insidious poison.
Saw them calling her name with their last breaths, their faces etched with pain and pleading.
And something deep inside her, something far stronger than pain, far deeper than fear, refused to yield, refused to surrender to the darkness.
"No," she whispered into the suffocating darkness, her own voice trembling but resolute.
"I will not let you have them. I will not let you have me. They are my friends."
The Valkyrie screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony, clutching her head as light and shadow warred within her very being.
The magnificent wings upon her back cracked and splintered, fragments of light scattering like broken glass, a shattered reflection of her fading power.
The golden aura that once shone so coldly now flickered erratically, unstable and unraveling, threatening to extinguish altogether.
Her radiant hair dulled, returning from shimmering silver to its usual dark strands, a visible sign of Azre's resurgence.
At last, the wings shattered entirely, vanishing into a shower of sparks, leaving only empty space where once divine power had resided.
The ethereal armor crumbled away, dissolving into dust, and the Valkyrie's towering form collapsed inward, shrinking, becoming mortal once more.
And when the swirling haze finally cleared, it was Azre who knelt upon the poisoned earth, her breath ragged and shallow, her body trembling uncontrollably with weakness and exhaustion.
Her vision swam, the world tilting precariously around her, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her.
But she forced herself upright, drawing upon the last vestiges of her strength, even as her knees screamed in protest.
The knights' voices still echoed in her ears, desperate, pleading, fueling her resolve. She clenched her fists, summoning the last reserves of her depleted will.
"I… I won't let you die. I… won't lose you."
She raised her trembling hands, every nerve in her body screaming in protest, her muscles burning with excruciating pain.
Magic surged forth, wild and untamed, threatening to consume her entirely.
A brilliant light burst from her palms, flooding the poisoned air with cleansing energy.
She wove the ancient words of a forgotten spell, her voice cracking and breaking with the strain, but her resolve unyielding, unwavering.
A wave of pure, cleansing radiance swept outward across the battlefield, a tide of hope against the encroaching darkness.
The miasma hissed and recoiled as if burned, withering under the intense light, its power diminished.
The poison in the knights' veins was drawn out, black tendrils forced from their wounds and mouths, dissolving into nothingness as they were consumed by the light.
The forest itself seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief as the corruption vanished, replaced by the life giving energy of Azre's magic.
And then, as the last vestiges of the venom were purged from the land, she unleashed a second spell one far greater in scope, far more taxing on her already depleted reserves.
The ancient sigils glowed beneath her feet, circles upon circles of arcane script spinning with divine energy, bathing the battlefield in an ethereal glow.
Healing light cascaded outwards in every direction, enveloping the fallen Purge Knights in its warm embrace.
Wounds closed, breath steadied, life returned to their ravaged bodies, pushing back against the cold embrace of death.
It was a spell few could even hope to cast, a wide area restoration of the highest tier, requiring immense power and unwavering focus.
And Azre, drained and trembling on the verge of collapse, forced it into existence with nothing but her sheer force of will, her unwavering love for her friends, and the last remnants of her soul.
When at last the light faded, leaving behind an almost palpable sense of peace, the knights lay healed, their bodies free of the poison, their lungs drawing in untainted air.
Relief flooded their eyes as they turned toward her, awe and gratitude mingling with a deep seated fear for what she had endured, for the price she had paid to save them.
Azre swayed precariously on her feet, her strength utterly gone. Her vision blurred into a sea of white, her body felt cold and hollow, as if every ounce of her being had been emptied.
Every drop of mana, every thread of her life force, had been poured into the spell, leaving her a mere shell of her former self.
And then, as the weight of her exhaustion crashed down upon her, she collapsed.
Her body fell limp upon the poisoned ground, her dark hair splayed across the dirt like a shroud.
Her chest rose and fell faintly, her breath shallow but steady, a fragile sign of life. She had saved them, but at the cost of everything she had to give.
The knights, still too weak to move, called her name in alarm, their voices filled with fear and concern.
But Azre no longer heard them. Darkness claimed her, not as binding chains, but as a welcome rest, as blessed silence, as the fragile mercy of utter exhaustion.
And above her, the Executioner lay dormant in the soil, its flames extinguished, waiting patiently for the hand that would claim it once more, waiting for Azre to rise again.
Azre's body lay still and lifeless, her breath faint and shallow, her strength completely depleted.
The knights, shaken and pale, could only watch helplessly, their hearts filled with a mixture of relief and profound guilt.
She had burned everything within her to cleanse the poison and mend their wounds, but now she was empty, a broken vessel collapsed upon the ruined earth.
Relief mingled with fear in their eyes, for though they lived, she had given more than she could afford, and they knew, with a chilling certainty, that the consequences of her sacrifice would be far reaching.
Far away, in the desolate heart of the blighted lands, Holon staggered through the poisoned wind, his laughter echoing faintly across the barren landscape.
His crimson eyes glowed with a feverish fire, madness burning brighter than the festering wounds that marred his ravaged body.
Each step was an agonizing effort, but his twisted will drove him relentlessly deeper into the wastes, away from the battlefield, away from the knights he had failed to destroy.
The Ashen Wastes stretched before him, an endless grave of broken stone and choking dust.
At its desolate heart stood the skeletal carcass of a fortress long dead, its once imposing walls shattered and crumbling, its towers leaning like broken teeth against the ashen sky.
Ash drifted through the air like a perpetual snowfall, whispering forgotten secrets with every mournful gust of wind.
The ancient ruins seemed almost alive, breathing secrets through hollow windows and cracked archways, watching him with unseen eyes.
Holon's grin widened, a grotesque parody of joy, as he limped laboriously toward the ruined fortress.
The shadows seemed to lengthen and stretch towards him, welcoming him like long lost companions, beckoning him into their embrace.
Tattered banners, emblazoned with long forgotten symbols, clung precariously to blackened stone, and hollow statues, their faces eroded by centuries of wind and rain, stared blindly as he passed, their silent vigil unbroken.
Then, as he entered the fortress courtyard, the oppressive silence shifted, subtly but undeniably. The very air seemed to thicken, growing heavy with an unseen presence.
The shadows deepened, folding in upon themselves, becoming almost tangible.
From the heart of the ruined courtyard, a figure emerged, tall and cloaked in shadows so deep they seemed to absorb the very light around him.
The air surrounding him grew instantly colder, colder than the deepest night, and his presence pressed down upon Holon like an unseen hand, heavy and absolute, threatening to crush him.
Holon stopped dead in his tracks, his crimson gaze caught in the dark figure's unwavering hold.
The manic grin wavered on his face for the first time since fleeing the battlefield, replaced by a flicker of something akin to fear.
This was no mere echo of the past, no lingering spirit of a bygone age. This was raw, untamed power, ancient and malevolent, and it radiated from the figure like a palpable force.
The fortress stirred again as more shapes stepped forth from the broken walls, emerging from the shadows like nightmares given form.
One by one, eight figures slipped silently into view, each cloaked in black from head to toe, each half hidden by the swirling haze of ash and shadow.
A woman's mocking laugh cut the silence. Her voice was velvet laced with poison.
"Pathetic," she sneered, her lips black as midnight. "Defeated by children playing at knighthood. And you call yourself the Plague?"
Next came a giant of a man, muscles straining beneath his cloak. Three swords adorned him two on his back, one at his waist.
His grin was manic as he drank in Holon's bloodied state.
"Beautiful," he rumbled, licking his lips.
"You bleed like an animal, Holon. I can smell the fear on you."
Holon glared, but the next figure silenced him with a single, calculating look. A gaunt man with spectacles, robes stained faintly with alchemical residue, stepped forward.
His expression was calm, but beneath his eyes burned the hunger of one who dissected lives for sport.
"I prefer test subjects alive," he said simply, voice like a scalpel's edge.
"Don't waste yourself so carelessly."
Another laugh, sweet and melodic, drifted from the group. A young woman twirled her fingers as threads of cursed light spiraled between them.
Her innocent smile did nothing to hide the madness behind her eyes.
"They called me a monster. Banished me from my home. And now?" She spread her arms wide.
"Now I'll give them curses they'll never forget."
A child's voice broke the air with a sharp bark of laughter. A boy, no older than twelve, stepped forth with wild eyes and a smirk that didn't belong on a child's face. The void itself seemed to ripple at his fingertips.
"Cities crumble. Monsters obey me. All it takes is one sacrifice." He scowled suddenly, stamping a foot.
"And yet they treat me like a brat! I'll show them I'm stronger than all of you!"
From the far side of the circle, silence lingered until a figure stepped forward smooth, faceless.
No features marked his visage, only shifting flesh that rippled faintly as though awaiting a form to steal.
He spoke with many voices at once male, female, old, young as though mimicking all he had ever consumed.
"Faces are masks. Masks are mine."
The air grew colder still as another revealed himself pale as the grave, his cloak shivering with shadowy copies of himself that slithered around him like insects.
His eyes gleamed with hunger.
"Mana is life," he whispered, stretching out a hand. The nearest clone exploded into sparks of energy, feeding into him.
"And life is mine to consume."
Last came a boy with long black hair and skin pale as moonlight. His expression was distant, unreadable, his eyes like hollow wells that had forgotten what it meant to be alive.
"I do not remember who I was," he said softly, almost mournfully.
"But I cannot die. And so I walk, and walk, until Daath rises again to end me."
They formed a circle around Holon, enclosing him like a cage of predators, their silent scrutiny more terrifying than any physical threat.
The ancient fortress shuddered, stones groaning under the strain, ash spiraling into the air as though the ruins themselves recognized the significance of the gathering, the dawn of a new age of darkness.
At their center, the cloaked figure slowly raised his head, his face still hidden in shadow.
Even the dim, ashen sky seemed to bow in deference, light bending away from him as if repelled by his very presence.
His voice came low, almost a whisper, but it carried through the ruined courtyard with unnerving clarity, as if the very stones had been waiting for centuries to echo his words.
"All shall fall before us. All shall kneel before the Abyss. The time of reckoning is at hand. The Abyss awakens."
The eight shadows moved closer, their silence screaming louder than any thunder, their intent unmistakable.
The air thickened until every breath burned in Holon's chest, until he felt as though he were drowning in darkness.
Yet his grin returned, sharper now, more manic than ever before. His festering wounds no longer mattered, his recent failure was already forgotten.
He lifted his arms wide, his crimson eyes blazing with unholy light, a willing servant of the darkness.
"Yes… let this world burn," he rasped, laughter cracking from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated madness.
"And she will see it… all of it. She will watch as everything she loves is consumed by the flames."
The ruins groaned in response, ash spiraling higher and higher into the sky, as if the very earth bore witness to the dark covenant being forged, the unholy alliance between Holon and the forces of the Abyss.
And across Etherissia, though far removed from the desolate Ashen Wastes, the land itself seemed to shiver in anticipation, sensing the coming storm.